Under The Gun
by Asher J
Summary: Sam leaps into an Israeli swimmer at the 1972 Munich Olympics. His mission: to stop his teammate from going off to fight against the Palestinians after the terrorist attack that claims 11 members of their team.
1. Chapter 1

_**UNDER THE GUN**_

 **CHAPTER 1**

 **September 4, 1972**

 _Theorizing that one could time-travel in his own lifetime, Dr. Sam Beckett stepped into the Quantum Leap Accelerator—and vanished. He awoke to find himself trapped in the past, facing mirror images that were not his own and driven by an unknown force to change history for the better. His only guide on this journey is Al, an observer from his own time who appears in the form of a hologram that only Sam can see and hear. And so, Dr. Beckett finds himself leaping from life to life, striving to put right what once went wrong, and hoping each time that his next leap will be the leap home._

When the blue, hazy light faded, the first thing Sam heard was people cheering. As usual, he had no idea where the hell he was—or who, for that matter. What he did know was the bright fluorescent lights from the ceiling were hurting his eyes. He knew what it was like to have someone shine a bright light right into his eyes, mostly from getting an eye exam, but if you multiplied that sensation by a hundred, that's exactly how he was feeling now.

 _"Alle Schwimmer auf Ihre Noten,"_ a man's voice with a heavy German accent blared over a loudspeaker.

"All swimmers to your marks," a woman's voice with a Midwestern accent translated.

"What the...?" Sam started to ask. And that's when he saw it: the pool. It was 50 meters long with eight lanes of crystal-clear, shimmering water, and each lane was divided by bright red, white and blue ropes with gold trim.

In that instant, Sam realized where he was: the Summer Olympics in Munich, West Germany.

But who was he, and what was his mission?

When he dared to look down, he saw that he was wearing a white, skin-tight Speedo. "Holy shit!" he gasped in a hoarse whisper. Jumping back from the starting block, he quickly and frantically put his arms over his chest in a futile attempt to cover himself. This was bringing back memories of being pantsed by the groomsmen of this real sleazebag that he had to stop his big sister from marrying. Okay, so he wasn't completely naked this time, but it was still pretty embarrassing, especially in front of the thousands in attendance and the millions watching worldwide. Talk about your work stressors!

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam noticed a TV monitor. When he glanced up at it, looking back at him was a thin, muscular dark-skinned young guy, maybe 19 or 20 years old, and he had deep brown eyes, peaked eyebrows, and jet-black permed hair, just like the father on _The Brady Bunch._ When he saw the blue stripes and Stars of David on his swimsuit—if you could even call it that—he knew he was representing Israel.

"Ohhh, boy," he moaned. He was not happy to be here. It wasn't just because of where he was and what he was wearing. It was because the Olympics in 1972 would soon become memorable for all the wrong reasons. In just a matter of time, eleven members of Israel's team would lose their lives in a horrific, grisly attack at the hands of the Palestinian terrorist group Black September. It was a horrible time for everybody, especially Sam. He was just out of college when it all went down, and for years afterward, it was hard for him to even get excited for the Games, much less watch them.

A million questions raced through his mind: what was the date? Who did he leap into? And most important of all, was he one of the athletes who was taken hostage? Whatever the circumstances were, Sam had a really bad feeling about this leap.

"Hey, space cadet, get on your mark!" an urgent voice barked at him. Sam turned, and standing three feet away from him was a tall, older-looking guy with similar features, only he had straighter-looking hair, a blue Speedo with red stripes and white stars, and a big bushy moustache. And he was looking sternly at Sam as he motioned him toward his block.

"Right," Sam finally said, somehow covering up the fact that he knew damn well who this other swimmer was.

Mark Spitz.

As Sam climbed up on the block, his eyes darted out across the side of the pool. The crowd was on the edge of their seats, eagerly anticipating the start of another race. And there, right in the middle of the tenth row, cigar in teeth and handlink in hand, was Al. He always had on some crazy outfit that no self-respecting circus clown would wear on a bet, but this one really took the cake: red-and-blue striped polo shirt, white pants and matching Keds, and a silver satin jacket with the five Olympic rings embroidered on the left breast. When he saw Sam, he looked straight at him and gave the thumbs-up sign. _"_ You got this, Sam," his face seemed to be saying. Al was always a big help to Sam on his missions, and if there ever was a time that he'd need some help, this was definitely it.

 _Well, here goes, Ziggy,_ Sam thought as he got into the starting position. _Sink or swim. Just as long as I don't sink, that is._

Well, Sam didn't sink. In fact, he actually swam quite well. His father was the swim coach at the local high school, and he'd taught him to swim from the time he could crawl, so he didn't have to worry about drowning in front of all those people. However, he came in dead last. And this was the preliminary round, too—specifically, the 200-meter freestyle—which meant he wouldn't even qualify for the semi-finals. Plus, he'd just raced against _Mark Spitz,_ for God's sake.

Yes, folks, THE Mark Spitz, the super swimmer. The Olympic legend who would go on to win a then-unheard of seven gold medals, a record that would remain unbro-ken until Michael Phelps began his own winning streak at the Athens Games in 2004. So, needless to say, Sam wasn't feeling so great about himself right now.

"Boy, way to blow their minds, Beckett," Sam angrily muttered to himself as he climbed out of the pool. All he wanted was to get out of there and drown his sorrows in knockwursts and beer. Then he felt a tap on his shoulder and turned around.

"Good race," Spitz said warmly as he extended his hand. As soon as Sam heard those words, he was more than a little taken aback. After all, this was the same guy who, just moments ago, had publicly admonished him for daydreaming instead of getting ready. And here he was, congratulating him for a race he'd just lost.

"I, uh—thanks," Sam finally managed to stammer as he accepted the handshake.

"Look, everybody loses every now and then," Spitz went on. "But you'll have other chances. Who knows? With a little luck, we just might see you in Montreal in '76."

 _And with a little luck, I won't make an ass of myself in front of another Olympic legend,_ Sam thought. "Thanks," he said. "And you did good yourself."

"You're all right, kid," Spitz grinned, then turned to meet one of the reporters for an interview. As Sam watched him leave, he actually felt a little better. Nothing like a little pep talk from an Olympian to boost your confidence.

Sam had just picked up his towel to dry off when the portal opened right beside him. "Great goin', Sam," Al smiled as he gave him a little shoulder-punch. "And isn't Mark Spitz one helluva classy guy?"

"I'll say," Sam agreed as they started toward the locker room. "You'd have to be for shaking hands with someone after making him eat your dust."

"Umm, there's no dust here, Sam."

"You know what I mean. So what gives?"

"Right," Al remembered, pressing some buttons on the handlink. "Okay, let's see here. Your name is Moshe Apfel, you're 22 years old, born and raised in Haifa, Israel, and representing your country at the 1972 Munich Olympics."

"Yeah, I gathered that. Al, what's the date?"

As soon as Sam asked that question, a worried look crossed Al's face. "Uh-oh. September 4," he said grimly.

"Oh, shit, that means the terrorist attack is just over 24 hours away," Sam whispered anxiously. "Al, was Moshe—did he...?"

"No, he wasn't one of the ones who died," Al answered as he continued pressing random buttons. "Actually, he wasn't even in the Olympic Village when it happened."

"Wow, he really lucked out."

"And then some."

"So where was he?"

"Hey, Moshe!" an excited young voice with a heavy Yiddish accent interrupted. Sam and Al looked over to the right, and running toward him was another young guy who looked like he was from Israel. He was around Sam's height, only he had a stockier build and a unibrow, and his left arm was in a sling. But in spite of his injury, he was still grinning.

"Who's he?" Sam whispered.

"Tobias Galinski, 18 years old, born in Warsaw, Poland, emigrated to Israel with his family when he was three," Al answered. "Now he's Moshe's roommate, and Mo-she is apparently some kind of hero to him."

"Great race!" Tobias grinned as he playfully slapped Sam's back. "Wow, I wish I was the one who shook Mark Spitz's hand! Can you believe how many gold medals he's won?"

"Thanks," Sam said, then turned to Al and asked, "What's with the shoulder?"

"You were there, remember?" Tobias reminded him.

"Tobias separated his rotator cuff during a practice session," Al continued. "He was gonna compete in the discus throw, but he got a little too—what's the word?"

"Overzealous?"

"That's it."

"That's exactly what my coach said," the young athlete told Sam, then added in a mocking tone, "'Tobias, you're getting much too overzealous'. I guess I should've listened to him, huh?"

"I guess so," Al agreed, then said to Sam, "Anyway, his coach and the doctor both told him he couldn't compete with his arm in that condition, and even though he looks happy, he's really pissed."

"He sure hides it well."

"Hides what?" Tobias asked, which made Sam fight the urge to cringe. No matter how softly he whispered to Al, somebody always managed to hear him.

"Huh?"

"You just said something about hiding."

"I did?"

"I bet you were talking about you hiding how disappointed you were about losing," Tobias suggested. "Look, I know you, Moshe. When things aren't going your way, you don't show your feelings about it. That's what you always taught me."

"I did? Oh, yeah, I did."

"Yup," Tobias and Al both said in unison.

Just then, a blinking light on the handlink got Al's attention. "Oh, I gotta go, Sam," he said quickly. "Ziggy says the real Moshe's in the waiting room. I'll be back as soon as I have some more information, okay?"

"Okay," Sam answered. After Al vanished through the portal, Sam turned back to Tobias and said, "Look, I gotta have a shower, but what do you say we get a bite to eat later on?"

"Great," Tobias smiled. "I'll wait for you."

Sam nodded and headed into the showers.

As he turned on the water, he knew one thing for sure: whatever he was sent here to do—and with one of the most devastating events in history just around the corner, mind you—he definitely had his work cut out for him.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2**

One of the things Sam always had to do when he went on a leap was learn how to adapt to his surroundings. This involved pretending to be somebody he wasn't, and acting like he actually knew who the person was and what their life was like. Sometimes, it wasn't that big of a stretch, and it was actually fun—like the time he leaped into an understudy for the leading man in a production of _Man of La Mancha._ Once he got his bearings, he loved being onstage, and the payoff was that he was able to save the leading man's reputation, as well as his life.

Other times, it was a royal pain in the ass. If there was one leap he wished he could forget, it was when he was this kid named Butchie. Not only was his big sister a sadistic bully, but he had to stop his mom from abandoning the family to find herself, so to speak. And the fact that his dad was one of the most inflexible, set-in-his-ways people that ever lived sure didn't help, either.

Then there were those leaps where he could've actually been killed. For example, one leap had him in Maine in 1964. He was an amateur horror-novelist who had to figure out why people kept getting killed in such horrible, gruesome ways. It turned out that the hologram he thought was Al was really the devil in disguise, and the real Al was tied up with trying to fix Ziggy. Thankfully, it was all just a dream that Sam had had after he fell down the stairs and knocked himself out, and the only good thing that came out of that mess was knowing that he'd met a teenage Stephen King.

But anyway, of those three kinds of leaps, Sam could tell that this was going to be of the potentially dangerous variety.

The bar was jam-packed with both Munich citizens and athletes alike, and you better believe it was noisy. Heavy-set, buxom waitresses were running around like headless chickens as they carried trays loaded with food and drink. Big bearded bartenders were scrambling to keep up with the never-ending flow of drink orders as they filled countless pitchers and glasses with beer, whiskey and liquor. A jukebox in the corner was playing a lively, upbeat brass band song. Behind the counter, over the customers' heads, a 17-inch black-and-white TV was showing live coverage of the girls' gymnastics competition. And over in a booth sat Sam and Tobias, each with a glass of Schwarzbier—a dark chocolate-tasting lager—and their dinner: a small German pizza for Tobias and a sauerkraut-covered knockwurst for Sam.

"Oh, here it comes, Sam!" he heard Al exclaim over the racket. They looked, and Al was standing behind the counter with his eyes glued to the TV. The bartenders, completely unaware of Al's presence—and they would be, with him being a hologram and all—continued going about their business.

Oh, the perks of only being an observer.

When Sam got a good look at the TV, the first thing he saw was Soviet gymnast Olga Korbut begin her routine on the uneven bars. She was flawless, as usual, but then she did her now-legendary backflip off the upper bar. There was a huge gasp from everyone in the bar, staff and customers alike. When she finished, everyone started cheering and clapping up a storm as Al turned around, rushed through the counter, and joined Sam and Tobias at their table.

"Did you see that, Sam?!" Al shouted ecstatically. "God, I remember when I first saw her, and I still can't believe she didn't get a perfect 10! Were those judges idiots or what?"

"Yeah, I saw it, Al," Sam answered, somehow making himself heard. "Do you have any more information on Tobias?"

"Yeah?" Tobias answered.

"What?" Al shouted at the same time.

"Tobias!" Sam repeated, louder. By this time, the customers were now booing and cursing in German, which obviously meant that they were pissed off over Korbut's score.

"I'm right here, Moshe!"

"Oh, yeah, Tobias!" Al remembered, taking the handlink out of his pocket and pressing a few buttons. "Aw, dammit."

"What's wrong?"

"We got a problem here, Sam. I can't tell you out here; it's too noisy."

Sam knew what was coming next: meeting in the men's room. Sure, it'd be quieter there, but it seemed like a lot of their conversations took place there, especially when Al had important news.

"The men's room, right?" he guessed, and Al nodded.

"Probably wouldn't hurt," Tobias decided. After finishing the last of his beer, he got up from the table, laid the tip beside his plate, and made his way through the crowd just as Al pressed the side button on the handlink and disappeared. Sam went up to the counter, paid for their food, and went to the men's room, somehow dodging passing waitresses and bouncers. It was a wonder nobody accidentally hit him in the face or spilled anything on him, but that wasn't important right now. Whatever Al had to tell Sam, it was urgent.

Sam had just entered the men's room when Al appeared by the fire exit door. "Okay, Al what is it?" he wanted to know. Luckily, Tobias was in one of the stalls and the room wasn't nearly as crowded as the bar itself, so Sam didn't have to worry about drawing too much attention to himself.

"This isn't good, Sam," Al told him, and there was no mistaking the concern in his voice. "I just spent over an hour and a half in the waiting room talking to the real Moshe and trying to calm him down. He told me that the reason he and Tobias survived is that they weren't even in the Olympic Village when it happened, like I said earlier. Anyway, Tobias was so upset over the attack that as soon as his arm healed, he joined in the fight against the Palestinians and died in a gunfight along with six others."

As soon as Sam heard that, he slumped shoulder-first against the wall. He knew this wasn't good, but even he wasn't prepared for this. "Oh, that's just wonderful," he groaned.

"It gets worse. He left behind a girlfriend in Tel Aviv." As Al continued pressing buttons on the handlink, he continued, "Dalia Friedenberg, 16, born and raised in Tel Aviv. As a matter of fact, Ziggy says she's watching the Games on TV right now."

"Did she see any of the footage from the attack?"

"Oh, yeah," Al answered grimly. "She also saw the report after the shootout at the air base in Furstenfeldbruck."

"I remember seeing it like it was just yesterday," Sam recalled. "So, what do I have to do?"

"Let's see," Al said. "Ziggy says the attack will happen in ten hours—make that 9 hours and 58 minutes—so you have to stick to that kid like glue, and whatever happens, _do not_ go back to the Village."

"So basically, we have to stay out all night?"

"Basically. Sure, it'll get you kicked off the team, but at least you'll be alive. And besides, the security at the Village is inept as hell, so they won't miss you."

"That's okay, Al. I'm not exactly looking forward to putting on another lackluster performance in Montreal."

"Oh, it wasn't that bad."

"That's easy for you to say," Sam shot back. "You didn't embarrass yourself in front of an Olympic legend."

The stall door opened just then, and out came Tobias. "Moshe, who were you just talking to?" he asked as he went to wash his hands—which was a real chore, with his arm being in a sling and all.

"Huh?"

"I heard you talking to somebody named Al. And what the hell is this talk about not going back to the Village tonight?"

"Don't tell him the truth, Sam," Al whispered frantically. "Ziggy just said if you go back, the odds of Tobias dying will go up another 29%."

Now Sam was really caught between a rock and a hard place. He knew the attack was just hours away, and he therefore had to keep Tobias out of the Village so he'd stay alive, but he also knew he couldn't tell him who he really was because that was against rules of Project Quantum Leap.

And that's when it came to him.

"I, uh—I was just going over some dialog," he lied. It was the best he could think of under such pressure, but as brilliant a scientist as he was, he couldn't ignore that little voice in the back of his mind that was telling him that even _he_ couldn't bullshit his was out of this.

"Dialog?" a thoroughly puzzled Tobias inquired.

"Uh—yeah," Sam quickly answered. "Did I forget to tell you? I guess so. I'm auditioning for a play when we get back to Israel. You must've heard me practicing lines."

"Auditioning for a play?" Al muttered incredulously to himself as he put his hand over his face. "There's no way in hell he'll buy that."

Somehow, Sam was managing to act like nothing out of the ordinary was happening, but he was also fighting the panic that was rising. _I need time,_ he thought. _Time to think this through. But there_ is _no time. Jesus Christ, Ziggy, why can't I just leap already?!_

All the while, guys were flowing in and out of the men's room, and Sam was hoping against hope that they wouldn't notice their conversation, especially since, to them, he was talking to somebody who was invisible. And if they did, he was hoping they were too drunk to care.

Tobias turned off the water and turned to face Sam. The look on his face said it all. He didn't believe what he was hearing for a second. Even though he was a young kid, he was no dummy.

"Moshe, come on," he said, in a voice that was clearly telling Sam to stop playing him for a fool. "I've known you too long to not know when you think something's up."

And that's when Sam knew what he had to do.

"Okay, Tobias," he said at last. "I'll level with you. We can't go back to the Village tonight."

"What? Why?"

"We just can't, okay? Trust me on this."

"Trust him, kid, he knows what he's talking about," Al quietly added.

"Well—okay," Tobias finally agreed, which made Al let out a huge sigh of relief. And yes, that was another perk of being an observer. "Now that you mention it, the security over there is pretty lousy. Also, I know we're supposed to put politics and all that other stuff aside, but I don't trust any of those Palestinian workers any far-ther than I could throw them across the street."

 _Thankyou, thankyou, thankyou, thankyou,_ Sam thought in ecstatic relief.

"Say, now that I think about it, there's an inn just a few blocks away from here," Tobias continued. "We could stay there for awhile."

"Good thinking, kid," Al grinned as he looked at the handlink. "The odds of you dying just went down 34% and falling."

"Good idea," Sam agreed. "It's pretty late anyway, so let's call it a night."

Tobias nodded and followed Sam out the door.

No sooner had they left did a light on the handlink start flashing wildly as the link itself let loose with an ear-splitting whistle. "What now, Ziggy?" Al demanded, giv-ing the handlink a shake and a smack. And that's when he found out what was wrong. "Oh, shit! Gooshie, center me on Sam! Now!"

With a quick push of a button, Al vanished. He didn't know whether Sam and Tobias were walking down the street, in a cab, or what. All he knew was he had to find them. And fast.

Being just an observer did have its advantages, but that didn't mean Al was immune to bad news. And according to Ziggy, this was as bad as it could get.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER 3**

Sam and Tobias had just crossed the street and were right outside the inn when a panic-stricken Al appeared on the front steps and ran up to them. Right away, Sam could tell that things had just gone from bad to worse. As for what exactly the problem was, he wasn't so sure he wanted to find out.

"Sam, we got big trouble!" he cried frantically.

"I'm almost afraid to ask," Sam sighed.

"Ziggy says Tobias' girlfriend—what was her name again?"

"Dalia?"

"Dalia? What about her?" Tobias asked. Once again, Sam silently kicked himself for letting his teammate overhear his conversation.

"Dalia! Right!" Al said as he shook the handlink.

"I just remembered something," Sam said, trying his hardest to keep his cool. "If there's some postcards in the lobby, why don't you send her one after we check in?"

"Good thinking, Sam," Al whispered.

"Good idea," Tobias grinned. "It's a good thing I'm right-handed, or writing it would take me forever."

As serious as the situation was, even Sam had to laugh at that.

After they checked into their room (with the help of a very convincing story of their room at the Village being sprayed for bedbugs), Sam slipped out into the hall as Tobias started writing his postcard. "Okay, Al, what's wrong?" he demanded.

"After you guys left, Ziggy started going wacko. She says one of the terrorists who survived the shootout caught the first plane to Tel Aviv and killed Dalia and her parents in their apartment."

 _"What!"_ Sam gasped in horror. "Al, you have _got_ to be kidding me!"

"I wish I was, Sam. And that bastard made it look like an accident. I'm tellin' ya, these guys are smart."

"When?"

"Lemme check—September 7. That's just one day after the memorial service."

"Al, you gotta go to her."

"And do what, exactly? I'm a hologram, in case you haven't noticed! There's no way in hell she'll hear me!"

"Remember how you got Melny Trafford's attention when she wasn't supposed to be driving?" Sam reminded Al. "She thought it was the spirit of her late husband who saved her life."

"Yeah, she did, didn't she?" Al remembered with a proud smile. "I wish you could've been there to see that."

"Well, does Dalia have any deceased relatives? You know, like a grandparent or great-aunt or uncle?"

"Hold on, I'll check...Yes! Her great-aunt Adina. She died when Dalia was 12, and they keep a picture of her on their living room wall. Ziggy says she believes her spirit is always watching over her."

"Perfect. Okay, Al, I need you to get over there, and make it look like this kid's great-aunt is sending her a sign that she needs to get out of Tel Aviv. I don't care how you do it."

"I dunno how I'll pull it off, Sam, but I'll try," Al promised. "In the meantime, don't let Tobias out of your sight."

"I won't."

After Sam went back into the room, Al took a long puff on his cigar. "I sure hope Sam knows what the hell he's doing, Ziggy," he said worriedly. "Okay, Gooshie, looks like we're going to Tel Aviv."

And in an instant, Al was on his way.

The next thing Al knew, he was in Tel Aviv, standing in an average-sized living room, modestly furnished and decorated for what you'd expect to see in the early '7os. A middle-aged couple was sitting on the couch with a young teenage girl between them, and they were watching the Games on TV. Al knew immediately that this girl was Dalia, and yes, he thought she was beautiful, but there wasn't time to think about that now.

"Okay, let's think here," Al said to himself as he scanned the walls. "Where's that picture?"

Maybe if there were only a few framed photos on the wall, finding the one he was looking for would've been a lot easier. Unfortunately, the walls were covered in them: all shapes and sizes, some in black-and-white, some in color, some square and some round.

"Son of a _bitch!"_ he growled in frustration. "This is why I never kept any pictures of any of my wives. Trudy, that's another thing. Okay, Ziggy, which one is Great-aunt Adina?"

He pressed a button on the handlink, and a whitish-blue light shot out from the front of it. Then, all of a sudden, his arm shot straight out and started making herky-jerky movements to the left. It was like his arm wasn't even _his_ arm. To put it bluntly, his arm was possessed.

Then, just as quickly as it started, his arm stopped moving, and the light shone on a sepia-toned photo of a heavy-set woman with glasses and a kerchief tied around her head. She looked like an extra in _Fiddle on the Roof._

"I suppose that's her, right?" Al guessed, and the handlink gave an affirmative squeak. "You didn't have to pull my arm out of the socket, you know. Okay, so how do I make it look like this lady's ghost is trying to tell them to get the hell out of Dodge?"

To answer Al's question, a green-and-white button in the bottom left corner started glowing with an eerie, low-pitched hum.

"I hope you're right, Ziggy," Al murmured uncertainly. Putting the cigar between his teeth, Al took a deep breath and pressed the button. There was a loud whooshing sound as the picture, still in the white light, fell off the wall and hit the floor, shattering the glass on impact.

The noise made Dalia jump off the couch with a gasp. _"Mamen!"_ she cried.

"What's wrong, Dalia?" her mother asked as she and her husband got up. And that's when she saw the broken frame on the floor. "Oh, dear Lord."

"What is it, love?" her father asked anxiously.

"It's a sign from above," Al answered. "Well, that's what I'm _trying_ to make it look like."

"It's _Mume_ Adina!" the mother exclaimed, pointing to the picture. "I think she's trying to tell us something!"

The father walked over to the wall and knelt in front of the remains of the frame. "It's time," he informed his family. "I've had a feeling for a long time that someday, we'd have to leave Israel. And now, it looks like that day has finally come."

"Heshel..." the mother started to say, but her husband held up his hand.

"I'm sorry, Frayda," he said as he got up. "I know it will be hard, but after what just happened, and with the way things are getting worse around here, this has to be done."

"Where will we go?" Dalia asked her father, forcing herself not to cry.

"We'll worry about that when the time comes," he told her. "Right now, we need to pack."

As soon as Al heard those words, a wave of relief and sadness came over him. He was glad that this girl and her family would be spared, but at the same time, he knew there was nothing he could do for those athletes who would lose their lives in just a matter of hours. "Gooshie," he murmured, "take me back to Sam."

And as Dalia and her parents hurried to start packing, Al disappeared to deliver the news.

When he reappeared back in Munich, he knocked on the hotel room door. "Sam, get out here!" he whispered urgently.

The door opened, and Sam came out. Al could tell by the look on his face that he was hoping he had good news. "Well?" he asked.

"They're packing right now, Sam," Al answered.

"Good," Sam sighed with relief. "But where will they go?"

Al looked at the handlink and gave it a gentle smack. "Ziggy says they'll catch the first train to Bonn in 39 minutes—make that 38," he reported. "So the good news is, when one of Black September's guys breaks into their apartment, it'll be empty."

"I just wish we could help those poor athletes. How long until they're taken hostage?"

Al pressed a few buttons, then answered sadly, "Four hours. Maybe less. You know, I still remember where I was when it happened. I'd just sat down at breakfast with—oh, what was it, my second wife? No, it was Ruth. Anyway, the first thing we saw when I turned on the TV was that masked terrorist on the balcony, and that's when we knew something was wrong."

"I remember, too," Sam agreed. "I'd just graduated from college a couple months before, and I was listening to the radio on my way to my job at the campus library. That's one of several reasons why I always have a bad feeling whenever I hear an announcer say 'We interrupt this program for such-and-such'."

"You and me both. Say, where's Tobias?"

"Asleep."

"At least he and Moshe will be safe."

"Yup."

After a brief pause, Sam asked, "So, uh—I know this isn't the right time to ask, but, uh—when do I leap?"

"No, it's okay, Sam," Al reassured him. "I'd wanna know, too, if I were you. Let's see here—Ziggy says as soon as Tobias gets a phone call from Dalia, which should be sometime tomorrow."

"So they made it to Bonn?"

"Yes. And they're damn lucky, too."

For a few moments, Sam and Al stood there, not really looking at each other and not saying a word. They knew that Tobias was safe, as were the love of his life and her parents, but they also knew that one of the most horrifying acts of terrorism the world had ever known was just around the corner, and there was nothing they could do about it.


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER 4**

The very next day was one that Sam wished he could forget, but he knew he never would. And here he was, reliving it all over again. He and Tobias sat on the edge of their beds with Al standing right between them. All three were glued to the TV and watching every single second of the crisis that was going on back at the Village. All the while, Sam knew he'd done the right thing by not going back, but part of him still wished he could do something for those hostages. He looked over at Tobias, and saw a tear slowly cascading down his face.

With the exception of the news coverage, never in all his life had Sam heard such a deafening silence.

After what seemed like forever, newscaster Jim McKay appeared on the screen with a very serious look on his face. "I've just gotten the final word," he announced in a somber tone, somehow being able to keep his voice steady. "You know, when I was a kid, my father used to say that our greatest hopes and our worst fears are seldom realized...Our worst fears have been realized tonight. They've now said that there were 11 hostages. Two were killed in their rooms yes—yesterday morning, and nine were killed at the airport tonight.

"They're all gone."

As soon as those words were spoken, Al closed his eyes in sorrow, and Sam put his arms around a sobbing Tobias and held him as he cried inconsolably on his shoulder. It was very sad, knowing that the rescue attempt had failed so miserably, and seeing this young kid with his whole life ahead of him feeling so lost, scared and vulnerable.

The phone rang just then. Sam considered not answering it and just letting it ring, but then he remembered what Al had said the night before about Dalia calling to see if Tobias was okay. Eyes downcast, Sam slowly got up and walked over to the nightstand and picked up the receiver.

"Hello?" he murmured.

 _"Guten Abend,"_ the voice on the other end answered. "Is this the room of Tobias Galinski?"

"Yes."

"I have a young girl on the line at the Israeli embassy in Bonn. She says she's been trying to get in touch with him ever since she and her family arrived yesterday afternoon."

A million different emotions rushed through Sam: relief that he'd succeeded on his mission, happy that Tobias was safe and his girlfriend would get to hear his voice, and sadness for those athletes and their families. Part of him didn't even want to leap, but at the same time, he knew he had to. And with that, he turned to his grief-stricken teammate, receiver in hand, and said, "It's for you."

Tobias pulled himself together, walked over and took the receiver out of Sam's hand. _"Shalom, neshema,"_ he whispered, fighting the new wave of sobs that were gnawing at his throat.

While Tobias talked to his girlfriend, Al motioned for Sam to join him by the door. Sam nodded, patted his teammate on the shoulder, and walked away to give him some privacy.

"You okay, Sam?" Al asked.

"I've had better days," Sam admitted. "You?"

"I'll manage."

"So what does Ziggy say about what happens to Tobias?"

Al took a long puff on his cigar and started pressing random buttons on the handlink. "Well, first of all, one of the Olympic officials will be here first thing in the morning to pick him up," he answered. "Then, after the memorial service, Tobias is taken to the embassy in Bonn to be with Dalia. After they apply for a green card, they all move to the States together less than a year later."

"I'm guessing this means he never competes in the Games again, right?"

"Nope."

"What about Moshe?"

After Al shook his head, he continued, "He goes back to Israel after the service and also applies for a green card, and moves to the States in June of '75. By this point, Tobias and Dalia are married and living in Oregon, their daughter is born the following January, and Moshe becomes her godfather."

"That's great," Sam smiled half-heartedly. As tragic and horrific as the events of the day were, he was thankful that something good did come out of it all. "Does that mean he doesn't fight against the Palestinians, either?"

"Yup."

For the second time, Sam and Al stood together in silence. What was there for either of them to say? They couldn't bring those athletes back, but at least Moshe and Tobias would be all right.

No, it wasn't much, but it was a start.

"Well," Al said at last, "looks like it's time to leap."

Sam nodded, and less than a second later, the blue, hazy light enveloped him. His job was finished, and he was on his way to right another wrong.

When the light faded, Sam awoke to a loud rumble of thunder. When he opened his eyes, he found himself lying facedown in the middle of a parking lot. It was raining really hard, freezing cold, and pitch-black. He shakily got up on his hands and knees—which was a real challenge, due to how much his back and shoulders were hurting—but when he tried to stand up, a sharp pain shot through his left ankle.

"Ahh, dammit!" he screamed through clenched teeth as he collapsed, clutching his ankle. When he looked up, he the first thing that greeted him was the glowing red Sears logo on the side of a gray stone building with two palm trees on the far end. And that's when he figured it out: he was outside a shopping mall, and someplace with a tropical climate.

His guess was either Florida, Southern California, or maybe Hawaii.

Now only one question: who was he this time?

All of a sudden, a bright yellowish-white light flashed on him. He whipped his head to the right and saw a big, burly 6' 5" bear of a man marching over to him, flashlight in hand. This was obviously a security guard, because even in the dark, Sam could still see the silhouettes of a nightstick, a .38 caliber pistol, and a walkie-talkie hanging from his belt.

A lake-sized puddle of rainwater caught his caught his eye. When he limped over and look-ed into it, staring back at him was a dirty, disheveled man with a pockmarked face, a scraggly, graying Willie Nelson-looking beard, long, brown, stringy hair, and three missing teeth. He also had on a faded flannel shirt over a US Army T-shirt, mud-splattered jeans, and tan, beat-up work boots.

"Hey, ya stinkin' boozehead!" the guard snapped. "I thought I told you to stop panhandling around here!"

"Oh, boy," Sam groaned. He was no stranger to being up shit's creek without a paddle, but in that moment, he actually thought dealing with the evil leaper known as Zoey was a picnic compared to what awaited him here!

 **THE END**


End file.
